


The Doctor's Toothache

by CaptainBlackbean



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: David Tennant - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainBlackbean/pseuds/CaptainBlackbean
Summary: Tooth pain interrupts the Doctor's day off. He finds himself in the clutches of an inexperienced dentist and dreams of Gallifrey while on the gas.
Kudos: 2





	The Doctor's Toothache

**Author's Note:**

> David Tennant has a filling. Occasionally, when he screams, it's visible. In turn, the tenth Doctor has a filling, and it seemed like a real treat to flesh out that strange, little incongruence.

The Doctor’s Toothache

It was the Doctor’s day off.

Such days were rare and precious. When the distress signals did not sound and his many enemies seemingly forgot about him, the Doctor afforded designated a small bracket of space-time as immutably his.

The Doctor sat in a large, plush armchair. He’d picked it up in France, 1756.

Or was it Germany, 1845?

Russia, 1780?

Maybe Poland . . . somewhere in the 1600s . . .

It didn’t matter. The point was, the chair was comfortable and he was sitting in it. _Lounging_ in it, with his shoes off and his feet in a bucket of water warmed by the radiant heat from the heart of the TARDIS. He had a damp towel around his neck and two slices of cucumber on his eyes. He didn’t know why. He’d seen it done and figured it was important to the process. A rubber ducky bobbed in the bucket.

Life was—dare he say it?—good.

Then, while half-asleep, mind wandering through worlds long gone and worlds yet to be, he felt a sting in the back of his mouth. He pictured an entire kitchen knife disappearing in his gums.

The Doctor lurched upright. He spilled the footbath. Scalding steam gushed through the grated floor, scalding his big toe. He grabbed his jaw. The Doctor knew pain like so few others in the universe. He knew the pain of being shot, stabbed, broken, burned, accelerated, atom-smashed, befuddled, tortured, shocked, and heart-broken, the pain of dying and the pain of isolation—and none of them compared to the agony in his mouth.

His mind raced. His nemeses were varied and clever, with access to limitless horrors.

Were nanobots breaking down his flesh, molecule by molecule?

Was this some type of airborne acid which activated in the presence of calcium?

He didn’t think he’d been poisoned—but those were famous last words if he’d ever heard them.

Anything might be true, and until he knew for certain he could not counter the affliction. He needed to know. He needed to _scan_.

Shoeless, wet, and at great speed, the Doctor fashioned a scanner from his chameleon arch: a device able to rewrite the wearer’s genetic code. It was not hard to turn a DNA-changing machine in a DNA-scanning machine, especially for someone who could turn a bowl of cornflakes into a warp drive with enough spare time. But that didn’t assuage his fear of the potential results. There were some nasty things in the universe. A lot of them killed you. Not all of them could be stopped. The Doctor hoped for something mild, like plague.

He linked the scanner to a screen, then placed the apparatus on his head. Lines of biometric code skittered across the display. Green text overwhelmed a black screen, his entire make-up made visible. Every atom, every gene, analyzed and presented. Somewhere in those numbers and symbols was an answer. He watched, open-mouthed, sweating.

The code stopped.

The Doctor rushed to the screen. He read the results.

“ _What is it? What is it?”_

All seemed normal—until he found one innocuous line buried in the code. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was ridiculous, impossible.

“A _cavity_?” he said.

No. It had to be something else. A synthetic venom or a weaponized prehistoric germ.

The doctor restarted the scan. This time, he read each line of code as it appeared, but the result was the same: nothing abnormal beyond the cavity.

The Doctor removed the chameleon arch. He paced the control room. He was afraid—no, angry—confused—no—

Nervous.

Of course, the Doctor understood cavities intellectually—the incremental build-up of a bacteria-harboring film caused the deterioration of the enamel, leaving sensitive holes in the teeth—but that seemed so . . . _beneath_ him. He was a Time Lord. His people had mastered the complex algorithms of time travel. They’d harnessed energy from tears in the fabric of the space. They were among the most advanced people anywhere, and they certainly didn’t reach that pinnacle by _stopping to_ _floss_.

He couldn’t remember if anyone cared for their teeth on Gallifrey. There were so many other, grander things to do. And then the Great Time War. In the wake of such malevolence, memories of the day-to-day just . . . faded. They ceased to matter.

This lack of memory scared the Doctor, who considered himself a bastion of memory. He thought harder. Had there been Time Lord dentists? Time Lord orthodontists with quantum braces? When he was a child, had his parents stood outside the bathroom door, saying, “Doing everything you’re supposed to in there?”

He had no idea. If it had happened, it was nine lifetimes ago. Nine long lifetimes. If such a memory had existed, now there was nothing but a hole burned out by time and change and, in all honesty, a lack of reflection.

A surge of pain ripped through the Doctor’s head. It brought him to his knees.

“Need a dentist,” he hissed. With one hand in his mouth and one hand on the TARDIS’ controls, he input coordinates for Earth. Earth was a reliable place for dentistry—in the modern age, anyway. Things were generally good if you skipped over the long period in which dentistry was a passing hobby for sub-par barbers. The Doctor slammed down the accelerator lever and off the TARDIS shot through the anthill of space-time.

#

It was a bright day on Earth. Pleasantly warm. Cloudless. The sort of day so beautiful, even the most verminous soul hung up their chip to go whistling through the park.

The TARDIS materialized in an alley. Out stumbled the Doctor.

“Hell in a _handbasket_ ,” he said, supporting himself on the side of the TARDIS. Tears shimmered in his eyes. “How do humans go on like this?”

He hurried from the alley, into the crowded streets of London.

He soon stumbled upon Happy Gums Dentistry and rushed inside.

The lobby was a wet blue-green color, as if the walls were painted with mint gelatin. In each corner stood a six-foot vase spilling over with spider plant leaves. Three chairs sat along the wall. They were made of frigid steel and torn tweed cushions, and they seemed totally unconcerned with their intended purpose: to softly support a wide array of bottoms. Rather, they put to mind feral cats. They would make the sitter as uncomfortable as possible for as long as possible without actually killing them. Across from the chairs was a reception desk. A young woman marked a patient chart with red pencil. Her dress was an ocular foghorn: seven distinct and blindingly bright bands of yellow. The Doctor squinted as he approached the counter. Behind her, a radio sang: “Help! I need somebody! Help! Not just anybody!”

The Doctor had been all over. He’d seen nearly everything. What he hadn’t seen, he’d heard of. And if he’d learned anything in his time, it was this: the universe was alive, and it had a sick sense of humor.

“Excuse me,” said the Doctor. “Is there any chance I could see someone?”

Without looking up, the receptionist said, “What is your complaint, please?”

“Cavity.”

The woman continued to mark the patient form. “And your name, please?”

“The Doctor.”

“The doctor’s name is Martin Murray. Your name, please?”

“The Doctor,” repeated the Doctor.

The receptionist looked up. She was a pure smile, with eyes the size of golf balls. “Oh, you’re a dentist too?”

“Uh, no, not as such. I’m a different kind of doctor.”

“What sort? Internal medicine? Pediatrics? I’m hoping to get into psychiatry myself, because my uncle, who’s also a psychiatrist said I have a very special something about me that would lend itself—”

The Doctor felt like a railroad spike was being driven through his head. _Ping! Ping!_ Each passing syllable, _ping ping!_

“No, none of those,” he interrupted. “Just a kind of . . . doctor of everything, really.”

The receptionist looked surprised. “I didn’t know you could get a doctorate in everything. Must have been some program. Must’ve taken you a long time to earn that degree.”

“Ages. So. About Dr. Murray? Is he in?”

“Let me check today’s schedule,” said the receptionist. She uncovered a fat calendar book, which showed a week at a glance. It was empty, Monday to Friday, except for seven little balloons marked LUNCH.

The Doctor’s stomach turned. “Not a lot of fans of Dr. Murray, looks like.”

The receptionist laughed. “The practice is new, that’s all. Just opened last month. People hardly know we’re here.”

“Ah,” said the Doctor. “So I get him fresh and alert, do I?”

“You can go right inside. Dr. Murray should be in his office at the end of the hall.”

The Doctor thanked the receptionist, then went through a heavy door. A hallway led to a stark white room fitted with furnishings the color of a coffee stain. The air smelled of bleach and cinnamon mouthwash. A young man with a drape of wavy black hair hunched on a rolling stool. He wore a white coat and read from a gigantic book titled _Fundamentals of Dentistry_. The young man appeared baffled.

The Doctor’s hearts froze.

He turned to leave, but the young man called out, “Wait! Sir! Hold on, please!” and grabbed the Doctor’s arm. “My name’s Dr. Murray,” the dentist said. “Are you a patient?” His voice was puppy-like.

“I . . .” said the Doctor. “I am . . . not sure yet . . .”

“Well, aha, it is exactly my job to tell you if something is wrong, isn’t it, because I’m the doctor, aren’t I, aha?”

“I’m the Doctor,” said the Doctor. This response was half habit and half assertion. Usually when he said, “I’m the Doctor,” things backed away slowly. Although Dr. Murray seemed pleasant enough, deep down the Doctor hoped Dr. Murray would back himself straight out of the room.

The young man only laughed uncomfortably. “You don’t say. You’re a doctor too. Ah, mm, _ahem_ . . . Not a dentist, by chance? I passed my boards, you know. I have my certificate. It’s hanging in the restroom. You can see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.” The man was flushed.

“No,” said the Doctor, “not a dentist. Don’t know the first thing about teeth, actually . . .” He filed away this gap for later. Teeth. Very common. Never know when you might need to know about them.

Dr. Murray’s face brightened. “Really? Fantastic! Why don’t you come sit down here and we’ll take a look at you?” He gestured to the reclining chair in the center of the room, then seated himself back on the rolling stool.

The Doctor did not want to. He wanted to run very quickly, very far away. Unfortunately, the Doctor was a nice person. He was a sucker for someone in need, and this man had need written all over him. He lowered himself into the chair. The unused leather crackled under his weight. This was not a reassuring noise. The Doctor side-eyed a tray of tiny picks and scalpels.

“So. Been a dentist long?” the Doctor asked.

“Oh, yes . . . for a few now,” answered Dr. Murray as he washed his hands.

“Few years?”

“Few weeks.”

The Doctor sat bolt upright. Dr. Murray whipped around and put his hands on the Doctor’s chest, keeping him seated.

“Look,” Dr. Murray said, “I know, alright? I know. But give me a chance? You’re the second customer I’ve had since I opened. First if you discount my mum. I need the practice. I need to feel like I can do this. And I’ll do a really good job, I promise. You saw me when you came in. Studying? Hard at work? Shows . . . diligence? Right?”

Blood pulsed in the Doctor’s ears. His legs felt as if they’d rip off him and leap out the window. But his conscience . . . There was no greater force in his body than his conscience. Against all survival instinct, his conscience demanded: _Help the guy out. He needs someone to take a chance on him. Come on, Doctor. Don’t abandon him._ The Doctor knew better than to ignore this instinct. Not because it was _smart_ , but because it was _tenacious_. Ignoring this impulse only made it stronger. He’d leave only to drag himself back, like an errant iron filing to a magnetic pole. Might as well save the time and effort. The Doctor nodded, smiled, and leaned back in the chair.

Dr. Murray thanked him, then slipped on white rubber gloves.

“Okay,” he said. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I have a cavity,” said the Doctor, pulling aside his cheek. He pointed to the offending tooth. “ ight ‘ere.”

“And I thought you said you didn’t know anything about teeth, aha!”

“Well, I don’t. But I recalibrated a DNA manipulator into a biometric scanner, ran it through my time machine, and analyzed the subsequent sequencing readout.”

“You—what?”

The Doctor grinned. “Just a hunch.”

Dr. Murray paused as the moment caught up with him. You could almost see his thought process rubber-banding through the air. He laughed. “Oh! Oh, yes! Time bio-scanner. Yes, of course. Aha! Got one in the boot, myself.”

“Who doesn’t?” The Doctor smiled jovially. The pain made him want to die. “Um?” He gnashed his teeth.

“Right, yes,” said Dr. Murray. “Let’s get you an x-ray.”

Dr. Murray rolled to the x-ray machine. It resembled the plastic offspring of a stove and a flamingo. He extended the bulbous head and placed the x-ray emitter against the Doctor’s cheek.

To a Time Lord, x-ray radiation was the Play-doh of the radiation world: simple and suitable for children. That said, it was still as potentially dangerous as any children’s toy. A wooden block was harmless, unless it got fired through you at three hundred million meters per second.

Dr. Murray kept moving the power dial back and forth, mumbling, “No, it’s got to be more than that . . . But that much? Really? No. Well, could be . . .”

Finally, Dr. Murray said, “Alright. That’s all set. Just need to grab a piece of bitewing film.” The dentist went to rifle through a cabinet.

The Doctor examined the x-ray machine. It was set perfectly—for burning a hole through a brick wall. The Doctor leaned over to adjust the dial, but Dr. Murray caught him in the act.

“Doctor, please, I know you’re anxious, but don’t touch that. It’s a very sensitive piece of equipment. Thank you.” He returned to his cabinet.

The Doctor returned to place, but carefully drew his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket. He aimed it at the x-ray machine, gave it a few tweaks, then stashed the screwdriver away again.

Dr. Murray’s ears perked. “I’m sorry, did you hear something?”

“Hear something?” replied the Doctor.

“Yes. A sort of buzzy noise. Kind of _e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e_?”

The Doctor gave a puzzled look. “No. Don’t think so. No _e-e-e-e_ here.”

“Hmph. Maybe there’s a loose wire somewhere? Or I’m losing my mind. Aha.”

The Doctor nodded politely. “Let’s hope for the wire, eh?”

Dr. Murray placed a square of black film in a set of clamps. He placed the film in the Doctor’s mouth and asked him to bite down. A few button-presses later, Dr. Murray had a harmless set of pictures of the Doctor’s teeth.

One image showed a clear black spot.

Dr. Murray cried, “Wa-hey! A whopper!” He regained his composure. “That is, you have a fairly large deterioration here. I recommend will drill that out and fill it immediately.”

The Doctor sank in his chair. “Yes. I thought something like that was coming. Could you just, I don’t know, lop my head off instead?”

“Aha. There you go, being funny again. Sir, don’t worry at all. You have nothing to worry about. I’ve filled dozens of teeth. It’s my best subject.”

At last, some hope.

“Really,” said the Doctor. “Well, that’s a great relief.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dr. Murray. “Fifty training dummies seen to, and not one of them’s complained. Be back in a flash. Just need to get a syringe.”

Dr. Murray scurried away.

The room was deathly quiet. The Doctor hated quiet. It made him feel small and abandoned. He wanted to reach out for a hand—but there was no one to grab. Only himself. Only ever himself. For countless others, he was the hand in the dark. Even for Dr. Murray right now, he was that hand. Had he ever before been the reacher? He must have been. Surely, as a child, if at no other time. He must have reached out in fear back then for a hand bigger, braver than his own. He must have done with his parents, though memories of such mundane events had been carried away in the floods of the last half-century.

_Doing everything you’re supposed to in there?_

The Doctor could almost hear it. His mother’s voice, or his father’s voice.

But had it happened? Had it really happened, or was it a total fabrication, his mind inserting reality where none existed? He’d seen the furthest reaches of time and space, remembered thousands of names of thousands of people—but had there ever been a creaky hallway, a night light, a tiny step stool leading up to a brightly colored brush on a sink basin? Where, the Doctor wondered, had such a tiny moment gone?

Dr. Murray returned.

“Would you believe,” he poised a needle in the air, “this little troublemaker slipped behind the fridge?”

The Doctor snapped back to the present. “What?” he answered tersely.

Worry swelled Dr. Murray’s face.

“I wasn’t being serious,” said the dentist. “It was a joke. Aha? This is a perfectly clean needle. You can see that, can’t you? I was just trying to lighten the mood, you know? This is a proper syringe. Brand new, I swear on my life. Perhaps that wasn’t the most professional thing to say, but I’m a little nervous, alright, and—”

“Dr. Murray,” said the Doctor. “Dr. Murray, _please_. It’s alright. I was just lost in thought and you surprised me. That’s all. Just miles away.”

Dr. Murray breathed out. “Yes. Well. Fine. Shall we begin?” He leaned over the Doctor and inserted the needle into his gums. “You should be numb in a second or two.”

A minute passed.

“Anything?” asked Dr. Murray.

The Doctor scraped his gumline with a fingernail. “Still feeling,” he said.

Dr. Murray looked baffled. “That’s odd. I gave you a pretty healthy dosage. Well, I suppose if a little more is necessary . . .”

Dr. Murray injected more Novocain into the Doctor’s mouth. Then again, and again. It seemed like there was no amount of numbing agent potent enough.

After his fourth dose, the Doctor theorized it was an issue of anatomy. His body simply processed the medicine differently. Two heart meant far better circulation. His blood cells were more evolved, and his liver was relatively super-powered. Then, of course, there was the trace of raw time always rolling around in his system. That often played havoc with the expected course of things. He’d need substantially more than any human would ever need, if so basic a chemical would work on him at all.

Dr. Murray stared at the bottle of Novocain. “I don’t understand,” he said. Sweat pebbled his cheeks. He sniffed the top of the bottle. “Doesn’t smell off.”

“Fast metabolism,” said the Doctor. “Look, do you have anything else? Something more . . . constant?”

“Well, there’s the gas, but it’s not so much a pain-killer. Mostly, it makes you a bit dreamy and distant.”

“Oh, that’s a day-in-the-life for me,” said the Doctor. “Whatever gets this over with, I’m willing to try.”

Dr. Murray wheeled over a silver canister printed with various explosive warnings. He attached a clean hose to a nozzle and a face mask to the hose. The dentist slipped the mask over the Doctor’s nose, then let the gas flow.

A cold, sweet smell filtered through the Doctor’s nostrils. He inhaled. At first, nothing seemed different. Then he moved his head. His vision lagged several seconds. He watched the ceiling tiles racing to keep up. The whole world had vapor trails.

“This is your stage, Dr. Murray,” he said. “Tee off.”

“Quite,” said Dr. Murray. He took up his drill and began the procedure.

This was a new level of pain. It was as if ten million bees were stinging their way through to the bone. And there was that whining sound: so uncanny, so intensely _wrong_.

“How are we doing?” Dr. Murray asked.

“I’m on a motorcycle of torment,” the Doctor giggled.

“Hm. Well, at least it’s not a Winnebago of despair, aha?”

The Doctor felt the sense of distance coming on, and he dove into it. He needed to get somewhere far away from the pain. He gave himself over to the gas, focused on his breathing—deep in, deep out—

And found a memory. Not even a whole one. A fragment, a scrap dangling by a thread thin as spider silk.

He was young. A child, not even four feet tall. He was inside—no, outside, yes, outside, on the meadows of Gallifrey. Resplendent, vast, under a diamond sky, nowhere else in the universe as beautiful. He ran without a care in the world, hopping and spinning, bounding just for the joy of leaving the ground, for the sensation of fearless flight. Back then, he only knew what was in front of him. Back then, the universe was a finite cake iced with infinite goodness.

Then he tripped. A hole caught his foot and he tumbled forward. His chin smacked a stone. The solidity of Gallifrey shot through his skull like a spear. At first, he could not cry. It all happened so fast, he didn’t realize there was anything to cry about.

But cry he did, all the way home.

The Doctor walked that creaky hallway, which was only possibly real, and entered that little bathroom, which may or may not have existed.

There were, however, glimmers of indisputable certainty

First, himself in the mirror, tonguing the large chip in his front tooth. He worried he’d look silly and his friends would tease him. He wondered why, when his people had command over time, he couldn’t make one measly tooth go back to normal.

It was strange. The Doctor—half in, half out—watched an anxious child who would become him, yet looked nothing like him at all. That child would grow into a different man, who would die to become a different man. And that man would explore and suffer and die to become a different man, who would explore and suffer and die. War would come. Friends would be lost forever, though enemies would seem wholly immortal. Worlds would crumble and life would restart, because what else could it do? It didn’t know any better. Just like that child. Like him. He didn’t know any better. He didn’t know how many lives would eventually sieve through his fingers, how sorrow would carry him around in its handbag. He didn’t know he’d be running through meadows, cracking his teeth on stones every day for the rest his life. That child only worried about looking silly. What the Doctor would give to only worry about looking silly.

But, then, the child wasn’t just worried about looking silly, was he?

No. The Doctor could see it, even if the child couldn’t. The ember of realization in his big eyes. All things start somewhere, and this was what started with a cracked tooth: the Doctor seeing the cruelty of nature, discovering impermanence and fracture. A simple stone, a simple tooth. The lifetimes of consequence.

The second certainty was the voice.

_Doing everything you’re supposed to in there?_

A voice. A request. A little irritated but caring at heart. Was it his father or his mother? It should have been clear, but the voice harbored qualities of both. The Doctor supposed it didn’t really matter. What mattered was the sureness. It was real. It had existed. It was mundane, hardly worth anything to anyone—but it was invaluable to the Doctor, all this time later, with so little left to hold.

“I’m trying,” he whispered.

“Pardon?” asked Dr. Murray.

The Doctor opened his eyes. The world still wobbled, but the mask was gone. The pain was nothing more than a dull ache. Dr. Murray washed his hands on the other side of the room.

“All done,” said the dentist. “I have to say, you were a wonderful patient. Didn’t scream at all, aha.”

“Oh. What? Yes. That’s me.” The Doctor smiled. “Thank you.”

“It was a pleasure being of service to you, Doctor—Gosh, my apologies. I never caught your name.”

“Just the Doctor is fine.”

“Well, okay, Just The Doctor, if you’ll go out to Sophie at the front desk, she’ll fix you up with he bill.”

“Ah. Right. The bill. The billy billy billy billy . . . bill. I have to admit, not much of a _money man_.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Murray. “I get it. You’re a doctor of philosophy, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“No disrespect meant. Your life is yours to lead, but _my_ life does involve the exchange of money for goods and services, as they say, aha.”

“What if I do you a trade?” the Doctor asked.

“I have impeccable teeth, thank you.”

“No, no. Information. I might know of some very lucrative investment opportunities on the horizon. Ripe picking for the right person in the right place.”

Dr. Murray leaned in. “I’m not trying to get burned,” he said in the tones of a man ready to get burned.

“No, nothing like that,” said the Doctor. “Very assured. You did me a favor. Happy to return it.”

Dr. Murray smiled. “Alright. A trade.”

The Doctor whispered into Dr. Murray’s ear, “Audio cassettes.” He winked.

“Going to be big?”

“Enormous. You won’t have to drill another tooth for the rest of your days, I should think.”

Now Dr. Murray got really interested. “Aha! That’d be the dream. Never was much into teeth, but, you know, family lineage and all that.” Dr. Murray rolled his eyes. “Just because grandad had a thing for bicuspids, we all had to. Teeth give me the creeps, frankly, and between you and me I love toffee.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” said the Doctor.

#

The TARDIS drifted through a barren patch of space. The Doctor sat with his feet in warm water and a towel around his neck. He had no more cucumbers, so he used cold light bulbs instead. The rubber ducky bumped his ankle.

The Doctor’s mind was never blank, but it was now as close as it ever got. Only a few hundred things bounced around inside. This was peace, or something like it.

That chipped tooth would have fallen out on its own, the Doctor thought. It would have worked its way free, then been replaced by a new one. It was healing through time. A very Time Lord solution, just as the child wanted. The child hadn’t understood patience was a form a time travel. He’d learn eventually. More or less.

The words resounded again.

_Doing everything you’re supposed to in there?_

It was not much of a sentiment. Bland, really. A bit vague. It was not a hand in the dark. It was not the confident touch he tried so desperately to offer others.

But it was something. Weak but there. Not a solid grip, no, but a sensation: fingertips brushing for an instant. The knowledge that someone, however difficult to see, was there with him in the absolute pits of his own mind.

The Doctor’s hand felt warm and, for a moment, he felt no pain at all.


End file.
